


The Painted Table

by Charmtion



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dragonstone, F/M, Fire and Blood, House Targaryen, Incest, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-17 04:07:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16967364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charmtion/pseuds/Charmtion
Summary: She gasps to feel his great hand run the valley between her breasts, down, down,down–The eve of the Conquest, brother and sister spin a spell of fire and blood.





	The Painted Table

The sun is what they are: fire. It sinks into the sea and turns the Stone Drum scarlet, crimson, cherry. Their world is the ruby of its eclipse; the room pulses with its heat. Bare black walls, but the chamber is spun half a hundred shades of red. Flames of dying sun fall across the table at its centre: blackwood, varnished, ford and forest and keep and castle picked out in threads of paint – all eclipsed by the ruby of the setting sun.

“A storm king sends me bloody hands,” says Aegon. “What will I send him in return, Rhae?”

Her hair is silver-flame spun to scarlet as the sun sinks into the sea. She stands at the tall window, looking to the east. Bare black walls – but she is what the sun is: fire. There, in the cherry shards of light bloodying her hair. Here, in the flash turning her eyes to lilac flame. She turns to her husband with a soft smile – the fiery light licks at the pearl of her teeth, turns them blood-red.

“Fire,” says Rhaenys. “Blood.”

Her skin is milk-white spun to scarlet as the sun sinks into the sea. She moves from the tall window, steps on soft feet across the chamber. Flames of dying sun fall across the table at its centre: blackwood, varnished, ford and forest and keep and castle picked out in threads of paint – milk-white fingers trail across it, pull across the threads of paint as a singer would a silver-stringed harp. But there is no silver here – all is eclipsed by the ruby of the setting sun, the scarlet dancing in purple gaze. Bare black walls, but the chamber is what they are: fire. He feels its heat scratching at his throat as milk-white fingers rise from blackwood to pull free lace and silk, skirt and sleeves.

“Fire is death,” says Aegon.

 _She_ is death sometimes. There, in the scorch of milk-white fingertips marking his jaw. Here, in the red-hot pulse that pulls him between her legs. Naked as scarlet slips to silver, as sun sinks and moon rises. But silver light fights with torch and candle and lamp atop the Stone Drum: the world is still fire – but softer now, orange and yellow and cherry, purple eyes sunk deep and dark as wine. She gasps to feel his great hand run the valley between her breasts, down, down, _down_ – rough fingertips running each rib and rise and circling the fire between her thighs.

“Fire is life, too,” says Rhaenys.

It can be liquid as water: it is between her legs – plush hot folds that pull him in to a red-hot pulse. The way they move is reflexive, knowing: hard hands that find the bones of her hips and pull. A swell of thighs – a burst of flame that ripples around his cock. The groan of a dragon rising from his throat as they sink together – _melt_ like candlewax, dripping, sliding, dizzying. They are what they are: fire. They surge and spark and flare and burn bright as the sun that is sunk into the sea: his great hand wraps into the silver-gold hair spun to flame and winds strands that shine bright as rings around his fingers. Her head is back, her throat smooth and milk-white – the valley of the lands he will conquer, the flow of rivers he will storm with wingbeat and wildfire, the lines of flame he will draw upon the painted table. _I sit a chair now – soon I will sit a throne_. Her head rolls in his grip, her plush lip is between her teeth. _Those eyes_. Indigo, endless – they drink the wine of his gaze as her hips roll and her cunt surges molten hot around his cock. _She will sit beside me_.

“What are you, brother?” asks Rhaenys.

He stands and he pushes and he folds. The red-hot pulse between her legs holds him rooted as tree to earth – but her back is a song to the painted table now, the silver-gold flames of her hair bleeding with threads of paint picking out ford and forest and keep and castle. His hand is at her throat; she lifts languid eyes and pulls his fingers to her chin. Those plush lips – first his thumb, then index, then middle. She rolls it around her mouth, from pink to pearl: tongue and teeth and taste. Her mouth mirrors her cunt: finger, cock, pulse, soft wet heat. He grits his teeth: the groan of a dragon rises from his throat.

“I am fire,” says Aegon. “I am blood.”

Wingbeat storms with wildfire in their veins. His fingers, wet from her mouth, shine the red of her nipples, make them glisten and glitter like sun setting on sea. She writhes as wild as waves, the swell of her thighs an ebb and flow parting beneath the frenzy of his hips. The silk of her skin slips scarlet against the painted table: blackwood, varnished, ford and forest and keep and castle picked out in threads of paint – all eclipsed by the ruby mouth crying out her pleasure. They soar as dragons above it: eddying, rippling, stirring the air with scales and smoke. His tongue is an inferno leaving flame and spice along the milk-white stretch of her throat. Plush lips part beneath its probe: tongue and teeth and taste – they drink each other like the wine of their eyes.

“I sit a chair now,” says Aegon. “Soon I will sit a throne – with you beside me.”

Their kiss is what they are: fire. A cinder, an ember, a spark that burns up the air between them – _always_. Council chamber, crowded castle, keep and kingdom, crown of thorns – that spark will flare readily anywhere as it does here, _now_ , in the marrying of their flesh and bruising of their bones upon the painted table.

“What are you, brother?” asks Rhaenys.

She is what they are: fire. Explosive, eclipsing, endless – eternal. She drinks the light of torch and candle and lamp: she is fire and blood in his arms. _Fire and blood_. She is spice and soft heat and surrender. Her hips roll and pull him deeper, her thighs strain and ache. His great hands press spread-fingered the blackwood either side of her head – thumbs covering ford and forest and keep and castle picked out in threads of paint: covering, eclipsing – they are made shadow now. Shadow to wingbeat and wildfire. _I sit a chair now – soon I will sit a throne_. A whimper, a whine, a feral broken thing: he sucks in her sound and scents it with his own. Tongue and teeth and taste: they drink each other like the wine of their eyes. _She will sit beside me_.

“Yours, Rhae,” says Aegon. “As you are mine.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. _A storm king_... referencing Storm King Argilac Durrandon sending the severed hands of Aegon's envoy back to Dragonstone, prompting six days of consultation that resulted in Aegon's Conquest of Westeros ( _The World of Ice & Fire_).  
>  **NB** : first foray into Targaryen territory for me! Feel free to leave feedback etc. 🔥


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